


Fuck the Kingsguard, Fuck the City, Fuck the King

by Valpur



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blackwater, F/M, Kink, Lemon, Medical Kink, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2013-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-02 23:13:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valpur/pseuds/Valpur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Stranger, take me away. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fuck the Kingsguard, Fuck the City, Fuck the King

 

_Fire in the night, in the eyes, blades of shining blood on the city’s walls. And blood on the ground –stinking puddles of death, piss and fear.  
Burning flesh._

_Wine cannot cover the bitter taste of  defeat and terror.  
It’s not the best alternative. It’s merely the only chance._

_Away from the battle. Away from the flames._  
Flames on the little bird’s hair.  
Come away with me.  
No.

_Then fuck you too, damned girl._

_Stranger, take me away._

 

 

He never lacked wine. Luckily, there was wine: it was the only company he seeked, the only one who didn’t hurt him somewhere.  
Dornish red, thick down his throat, dissolving in a calm warmth in the stomach. How much of it did he drink? Too little before finishing it and turning to that horse piss he extorted from taverns.  
Acid on his tongue, in his stomach… but later his head was lighter nonetheless, wasn’t it? Lighter. No fire. No corpses.  
Without that pain in the leg.  
 _No one escapes a battle unharmed._  
Sandor Clegane sported more than one wound, old plagues the town and flames and memories reopened. And a fresh one, a gaping slash from his flank to half his tight.  
 _Luckily, there was wine_. Enough not to feel a coward. Not to feel the flesh sag and blood coagulate against the leather of his pants. To ignore the burning and pulsing of corruption.  
Enough to float in the heavy silence of a forest (what forest?), to risk smiling at the sensation of the saddle scratching against his legs, his balls, tilting?  
The Hound fell like a potatoes sack on the uneven pathway.

 

Dry.  
Sand in his mouth and something swollen pressing against his teeth, suffocating him.  
Oh. Right. Tongue. That was it.  
The Hound tried to swallow; a thin pain at the corners of his mouth accompanied the skin shredding, the delicate taste of blood.  
It burned. Each breath was sparks down his throat, each limb a flaming log.  
His leg was no longer there; in its place only a scorching burden, or something like that.  
He tried to open his eyes; the lids cooperated enough to provide a slit; between ajar lashes only a floating yellow light. A blurred shade.  
The sudden wet cold on his forehead should have caused him to scream, to raise a hand  and grab anyone was touching him. He hated being touched.  
But his arms were so heavy and torpid, the cold sensation on his skin not so unpleasant.  
Keeping the eyes open was so difficult… even breathing was.  
 _Give me wine._  
But his head turned light and hollow.  
Silence.

 

A musky smell.  
Every muscle ached. And his leg, dammit, his fucking leg! He almost screamed, waking up, for that sudden, burning pain.  
A deep breath –his heart was still pounding, good- and out went the air. A second breath –yes, that leg hurt as fuck, but it meant  it was still there- and he slowly realized that he was somewhere, coarse wool on his bare skin.  
He bit his lip and tasted more blood, dry on his spoiled skin.  
This time opening his eyes was a task within his reach.  
The Hound frowned, he swallowed saliva and something bitter and fresh (what a strange taste, he had expected the usual morning-after drunkard crap) and lifted an eyelid.  
The roof beams were covered in a green patina, damp-stained, dark. That’s where the smell came from.  
Someone was moving in a corner, presumably the same someone who had removed his clothes and tucked in those horrible blankets, as rough as a boar’s fur. And now that person was fumbling with something.  
He tried to get up. After all it was only a matter of rising his head, leaning on his elbows and lift.  
Even just turning his head cost him such an effort to cover his face and neck in cold sweat.  
The stranger in the room came to a halt.  
Sandor Clegane would have wanted to scream in his harsh, contemptuous voice, but, while shivers made his bones rattle, all he could produce was a pathetic whimper.  
“W-Wine…”  
The shadow returned to obscure the small sun on the ceiling –a lantern, nothing more.  A pale, dark-eyed shadow pressed a tankard against his lips.  
Again, that bitter taste of herbs. And again, sleep.

 

When he woke again, the Hound hesitated before opening his eyes. The shack was empty and silent.  
He moved up his fingers, clenched his fists and found them disgustingly weak. He raised a leg –the good one- enough to let some cold hair slip under the blankets. He tried to move the wounded leg, too, and was amazed as he realized that the pain was bearable. He reached under the covers and patted his thigh: someone stitched him up, a long row of small, packed stitches under his fingertips. The flesh was still warm but not swollen. He bent his knee: the stitches burned.  
He propped himself on one elbow and turned on his side, snorting.  
It was more difficult than he had imagined. He pressed his palm against what, he realized, was a wooden floor covered with a mat of rushes and sat up.  
He closed his eyes again as the room spun wildly around him.  
His stomach rebelled and twitched in a dry effort that made his throat burn and his diaphragm ache. But the Hound was way too used to waking up with vomit as a companion.; he ran a hand over his face and waited for the illness to be gone.  
He was shaking. Nothing to do with the fact that he was completely naked, covered only in those shaggy rag that who knows who had thrown him.  
Wine. He had to find some wine. He pulled back the covers with an angry gesture.  
"Good morning to you," he croaked with a half chuckle.  
The wound had to be less serious than expected, or the treatment particularly effective, because someone between his legs had woken up with him, and in a very good mood.  
He could not help but notice with one eye the accurate mending  that had been embroidered in his flesh, a couple of dozens of tiny dark stitches clearly visible in the dim light of the hut. The lantern was off and there were no windows, but the roof boards were disjointed enough to let some sun in.  
The door opened with a thud and someone got in.  
Sandor covered his eyes with his hand, but the glow of the light did not last long. When he managed to see again, he focused on the mysterious silhouette. Tall, with long white hands.  
“You, woman. Bring me wine” he said, his voice husky.  
The woman raised a dark eyebrow. Her face was oval under the gray veil, her eyes large and wide apart, marked by delicate wrinkles. Not a girl, a full grown woman.  
“Give me… wine. Now”.  
Pathetic: he sounded like a damsel’s petulant lap dog. Surely not a hound.  
The woman slowly shook her head and curled the corners of her mouth into a smile. A wide, pink mouth.  
Her amused gaze shifted from the Hound’s scarred face and traveled all over his body.  
This nearly made him laugh.  
“Well, what’s up? You’re the one who stripped me. Does this upset you? It’s just a fucking cock”, he said, grasping it.  
As an answer, the delicate dark brows rose and a small wrinkle formed between them.  
The pale cheeks turned pink. This time the Hound actually laughed, a loud bark that made his muscles ache.  
"What, you've never seen one? Are you a septa, maybe? "  
And this time the woman nodded. But it was a quick gesture, dry and serious; her hands gripped the fabric of her plain gray robe and suddenly her flushed face disappeared under the dress’ neck.  
The robe fell to the ground without a sound. The petticoat, hems smeared with earth, was of a linen so thin to be almost transparent. The Hound opened his mouth on another rude sentence but, after all, it was not an unpleasant sight to witness. The woman’s dark nipples seemed to point strongly at the convalescent man lying on the floor; her rounded hips stretched the cloth, unable to hide the dark shadow between her thighs.  
The Hound grinned and lay down on his back.  
“Aren’t you thinking of…”  
She was indeed. The woman climbed astride of him, gently avoiding his wounded thigh.  
Sandor lifted his head: who was that stranger? Her big eyes were shiny and bright, damp and black. And they were not the only damp thing, in that hovel: the septa slowly spread her legs and touched the tip of the erect penis with warm, slimy labia.  
He was wounded. Angry. And now strangely aroused. A woman could well be worth a sip of wine, wasn’t she?  
 The Hound unceremoniously put his hands on her hips. The fabric curled between his fingers, the underlying skin smooth, the flesh soft.  
There was no need to talk.  
Her long white hands grabbed his wrists - hairy, massive, meant to hold a sword- and with a slight thug tried to remove his fingers from her hips.  
"Oh no, I do not think so," said the Hound between his teeth. He was still a warrior used to taking what he wanted. He tightened her grip and pushed her down.  
She was tight. Wet, ready, but tight. She shrieked for a moment when his dick pressed against her, inside her, hard, merciless.  
Virgin.  
She had been a _virgin_. The Hound clenched his teeth and pushed harder until he felt the barrier tear, yield.  
The woman stirred moaning. Couldn’t she understand that that way she was _not_ inducing him to stop?  
Her slender fingers were still wrapped around his wrists, nails digging into his skin ... but she was not really trying to push him away.  
The Hound grabbed her harder, lifting her petticoat over her thighs, over her hips. A shadow of curls almost as dark as his own welcomed him. He moved his hands –now she wasn’t going to go anywhere, was she?- and slipped them under the white cloth.  
The stranger followed that touch along the muscles of her legs, on the belly and up to her breasts. They were soft; he squeezed and rolled her nipples between his fingers until they became swollen.  
The bare woman's breathing -broken and irregular and rough- was enough to generate small movements and flows. Very funny.   
The woman threw back her head and dared a cautious slip forward with her hips. The Hound took the cloth between his fingers and pulled it up. There was a tearing sound and the remains of the petticoat ended up in a corner.  
This way it was, if possible, even better.  
She had not taken her veil off. And he did not mind this at all. But now he could see those large and heavy breasts with big dark areolas that looked at him straight in the eye.  
 _Sure. A septa._  
She was not an expert, but she had intuition. She spread her legs wider and pressed herself against him, moving strongly back and forth.  
The Hound closed his eyes. He lifted his hips and pushed hard, and screw that still healing wound. Along his penis he could fell the slight pressure of the woman’s inner muscles, warm and amazed by what was going on.  
He knew women very well.  He had had his share of whores, like everyone else, and never cared about their pleasure that much. He felt vaguely surprised when the stranger leaned forward and, clawing at his chest, began to arch her back , to  accompany each movement with her legs, opening and closing them slightly.  
She was panting louder and getting more and more wet, enough to make the tangle of hair around his cock slick and slippery.  
He could not be just blood.  
The thought excited him even more.  
The septa stopped following a rhythm and everythingt turned into a set of pressures and frantic spasms; a lock of hair slipped from the veil and twisted on her bare shoulder.  
She had never spoken to him but she screamed again, this time a long, slow, loud sound. Her mouth had become more swollen and now, disclosed in a perfect “o”, seemed to be swallowing everything, air and light and his very flesh.  
The grasps on his cock were more than he could bear. Independent from his thrusts they sucked him in, held him captive.  
He grabbed her buttocks and clawed them, so hard that the moan of pleasure that had filled the room mixed with pain.  
But he didn’t care. He hit harder and harder.  
Here it was. In his lower stomach, down, more concentrate till his balls.  
A contraction that made him grind his teeth, heath that was not fire, that was not fear, that was not home or anything. It was blood. Just blood.  
He Melted and poured into her with a bestial growl that drowned the feeble protests and moans.  
He was breathless. He slipped out of her in a mixture of blood, semen, and something slimy, transparent.  
The woman stepped back and sat down on the mat, naked. She was flushed, shook, but quickly settled her hair under the veil.  
The Hound briefly wiped himself with the blanket. The septa stood up and took a jug of water in the corner. He looked away and let her wear back her torn white petticoat.  
The gray tunic erased any shape, from the dark triangle between her thighs to her navel on her flat stomach to her wide hips. As if nothing had happened.  
He had not been paying attention, but she was beautiful.  
She smiled him once, shaking, and handed him his clothes, properly folded.  
"Heal," she said in a low, husky voice.  
The Hound took them: they were clean. Even his armor was there, close to the wall. And his sword. And a bottle of green glass.  
 _Wine_.  
The septa laid a hand on his forehead-  such a gentle, delicate touch, so different from what he had experienced before. A blessing and a farewell.  
She turned, opened the door and stepped out into the sun.  
Stranger was there, grazing quietly.  
The Hound was alone.  
He smiled, or nearly so, while the gray figure disappeared among the trees.

                                                                                                     

                                                                                                     


End file.
